


Pressure

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, BDSM, Kink, M/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Strangulation, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a tricky thing to do to yourself, which is not to say that Sherlock has not tried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressure

It is a tricky thing to do to yourself, which is not to say that Sherlock has not tried. There was the time with his father's scarf, and Mum had given him hell for that; perhaps she knew. Sherlock wouldn't put it past her. All that is as may be, and it has been a long time. A very long time. 

His nose is still bleeding, so he does not go to bed; the sofa will suffice for this. Mrs. Hudson is out, and at any rate she does not come in when she knows he needs privacy. Sherlock doesn't know why. _Doesn't know_. Words becoming familiar. Never mind, never mind. He kicks off his shoes. Hangs the coat. Pulls socks off with his feet, for no particular reason other than the tactile sensation. He is stalling, because he feels like it. He has not, despite what bad porn so often suggests, been _hard since he hit the floor_ because that's not how erections work, but he has been aroused. And so, and so, when he runs his fingertips along the welts on his neck just beginning to form, he does not focus on where his blood pools, only the heat and the pressure, new and remembered. (If he thinks about his cock at all, it is in irritation, knowing that the buttons on his trousers - no underwear - will chafe unless he takes it off, and his hands are otherwise occupied.)

Sherlock presses his fingers to his neck. Wraps one hand around. Then the other. Closes his eyes. Parts his lips. 

They did not burn this part of him, did not scrape or scald or crack or maim, which is a boon, as there is only the one memory. But of course it isn't enough. He feels... he feels _nothing_ , his mind still stubbornly refusing to remember pain, _any_ pain; he shut that part down for a reason. Sherlock squirms back against the pillows, the toes of his left foot pulling at lose threads. He keeps his hands firm. They are the wrong shape, fingers in the wrong place. He exhales in a huff, twisting his arms until they just balance on the edge of out of joint. It helps a little, but still... still nothing. 

All right. 

_Imagine the restaurant. Clutter of glasses and spilled wine. Gasps and shouts, the eight-bit sounds of a roaring crowd, far away. The tiled floor against thin layers of cotton and slik. The slow drip of wax from an overturned candle, just missing his skin as they skid past. Look up and see-_

Sherlock gasps, grip tightening, coughs. Spits. 

It is a tricky thing to do to yourself.


End file.
